


Everything Changes (Nothing Disappears)

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Detroit Red Wings, Discipline, Friendship, Gen, Goodbye, Hurt/Comfort, Kneeling, Kneeling Universe, M/M, Memories, Non-Sexual Submission, Spanking, Trust, joy, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 19:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5261225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Goodbyes are hard for igor, and Pavel isn't making this one any easier. Set in 2003 when Igor went to the Devils. Stand-alone prequel to the series "A Star is Born."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Changes (Nothing Disappears)

**Author's Note:**

> This piece can be read as a sort of prequel to my series "A Star is Born," but it is designed to stand alone as well, but anyone who enjoys this story who hasn't perused those yet, should totally consider checking them out:D 
> 
> Since this story only contains dialogue between two Russians, I’ve written it all in English without accents and left it to readers’ imaginations to translate the conversation into Russian. Russian diminutives for names are used throughout the piece and mean the following: 
> 
> Pasha-Pavel  
> Valera-Valeri  
> Igorek-Igor

“Everything changes; nothing disappears.” —Russian Proverb

Everything Changes (Nothing Disappears) 

“You’re mad at me, Pasha.” Igor clasped Pavel’s shoulders, which were so rigid they felt as if they were imprisoned in a strait jacket as he knelt before Igor, who was perched on his bed. He had hoped that the gentle touch combined with the affectionate diminutive of Pavel’s name would soften Pavel, whose spine was straight as a lance and whose eyes were hard as boulders. 

Unfortunately, Pavel’s manner remained distant and somehow icy as he observed, “I’m not mad at you. Why should I be angry at you?” 

“Maybe you should tell me that.” Pinching the ridge of his nose as if suffering the onset of a migraine, Igor thought that, while many people described Pavel as reserved because he was quiet as a falling feather, this was the only time Igor had ever believed the adjective fit him snugly as a glove. Normally, a warmth—a waiting kindness—emanated from Pavel’s shining eyes and impish grin, but now his lips formed an impassive line like soldiers in a marching column and his gaze was as impregnable as a fortress. Pavel was locked inside himself, and Igor wasn’t certain he had the key to reach him. “I don’t know. That’s why I asked.” 

“You’re leaving me.” Not exactly answering the question, Pavel stuck up his nose and stared out of Igor’s bedroom window at a crow in flight whose cawing was audible through the glass panes. “I don’t see why I should tell you anything.” 

“I’m not really leaving you.” Igor squeezed Pavel’s shoulders half in reassurance and half in warning. “When I’m in New Jersey, I’ll still keep in touch with you to make sure you’re behaving, although I don’t doubt that Brett will see to that, because I asked him to look after you, and you’ll be kneeling for him now.” 

“You didn’t have to do that.” Pavel’s forehead furrowed into a scowl. “In fact, I wish you hadn’t.” 

“Why?” Igor arched an eyebrow. 

“I read the papers and understand the English even if it’s easier to pretend not to.” Pavel waved a hand as if batting away a hovering mosquito. “Now that Sergei is gone, I have to be ready to step up and stand in nobody’s shadow.”

“Is that what you want to do?” Igor frowned, struggling to comprehend what was going on in Pavel’s ever-shifting brain. 

“Who cares what I want?” Pavel’s shoulders jerked a shrug. “You’re going to leave for New Jersey, which I don’t want, and I’m going to be the only Russian on the team, which I don’t want, either. That doesn’t matter. All that matters is what I have to do. I have to take over for Sergei, ready or not.” 

“Brett can help you do that. You don’t have to do it by yourself.” Igor cast a sidelong glance at Pavel. “Unless you don’t trust Brett, of course.” 

“I trust him.” The words seemed wrenched from Pavel as though by torture from an Iron Maiden. 

“He understands you, sees your potential, and wants you to reach it.” Igor swept a stray strand of hair away from Pavel’s cheek. “He’ll comfort and discipline you as needed, and you can rest assured that he knows to spank you when you get stubborn.” 

“You told him to spank me?” Pavel’s eyes smoldered like coals and his fists clenched like vises around Igor’s knees. 

“Is that a problem?” Igor slid a hand along Pavel’s taut back until it rested over Pavel’s flank. Deciding it was time to address a tone that had been too surly for too long, he lifted his palm and delivered a firm slap—not hard enough to hurt, but forceful enough to promise that any future ones would—to Pavel’s rump. As Pavel yelped like a whipped puppy at this unexpected assault on his backside, Igor asked in a deceptively pleasant fashion, “Are you planning on acting badly enough to deserve a spanking, Pasha?” 

“Screw you,” snapped Pavel. “You’re humiliating me.” 

He started to fold his arms across his chest, but couldn’t complete the furious motion when Igor, regretting that his last time with Pavel for the foreseeable future would include a spanking but grimly determined not to let Pavel believe that he could get away with such blatant disrespect under any circumstances, grabbed Pavel’s elbows and hauled him over his knees. 

Frantically, Pavel’s legs flailed in a reflexive protest at being pulled into this ignominious position, but his attempts to kick Igor’s ankles were aborted when Igor yanked his khakis and briefs down to just below his thighs, restricting his movements and baring his bottom for the impending punishment. 

Pressing a palm between Pavel’s shoulder blades to prevent him from jolting away from the rain of swats that would striking his rear, Igor brought the other crashing down in a smarting smack to the center of Pavel’s ass, chiding, “You-don’t-ever-curse-at-me.” 

Each word was emphasized with a spank that seemed to hit the walls as well if the pained echoes were any indicator. Settling into a rhythm, Igor kept up a steady stream of searing slaps to Pavel’s vulnerable butt as he scolded, “You’re humiliating yourself, Pavel, by acting like a brat. You should be grateful to me for looking after you and disciplining you, just as you should be happy that Brett is willing to take on that responsibility now. I might be leaving to play for the Devils, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you ruin our last few moments together with your rotten behavior. I don’t enjoy spanking you, but if this is how I have to leave a strong, final impression on you, so be it.” 

Pavel was snuffling softly in the way that he had when he was trying to avoid the indignity of a total breakdown, and Igor could feel the burning waves rippling from Pavel’s buttocks, which was tinged scarlet. 

With a last stinging whack, Igor restored Pavel’s pants and underwear to their original locations, and then tried to coax Pavel into a hug against his chest but found himself stonewalled when Pavel flipped over onto the mattress, snatched up a pillow, and buried his face in its silken cover. 

“Oh, Pasha.” Igor stroked Pavel’s hair because he couldn’t touch his tear-stained cheeks. “I wish you hadn’t made me spank you.” 

“I didn’t make you spank me.” Pavel sounded more defiant than weepy. “Newsflash: your hands are yours, not mine.” 

The blood pounding like war drums in his veins, Igor was appalled that Pavel could muster such insolence when his butt had to still be ablaze from the punishment Igor had just subjected it to. He raised his pam and was about to re-ignite the flames in Pavel’s behind with a hard swat, but froze with his hand halfway in the air as it occurred to him with the inertia of a bus plowing over a piece of litter on the pavement that Pavel might not be fighting him out of spite but out of an instinctive need to stand up for what felt right. 

Of all people, Igor should have understood that, because that had been his stance when he had revolted against Viktor Tikhonov’s stranglehold on the Soviet National Team players, who should have been free to see their families twelve months a year and to pursue hockey careers wherever they chose. Yet it wasn’t himself that Pavel reminded him of. No, Pavel’s magical hand and mischievous charm brought to mind Valeri Kharlamov, and, as always, the memory of Valera (as his teammates had referred to him), whose laughter couldn’t be stifled by Tikhonov and could only be killed by a car accident, was a spear to Igor’s heart. 

“You’re right.” Gingerly, Igor rested his hand over Pavel’s, squeezed for a second, and then released the slender fingers from between his own. 

“I am?” Astonished, Pavel peeked out from the pillow. 

“Yes.” Igor cradled Pavel’s chin between his palms. “My hands are my own, the way yours are your own. Don’t let anyone—even me—tell you any differently.” 

“Are you positive you want to encourage my headstrong ways?” A smirk accentuated Pavel’s dancing, dark eyes. 

“I am.” Igor patted Pavel’s cheek, feeling the salty dampness of tears. “You remind me of Valeri Kharlamov, you know.” 

“That’s crazy talk.” Pavel gawked at Igor as if he had just spouted three heads like Cerberus. “He had more charisma in his pinky than I do in my entire body.” 

“You underestimate your own charisma.” Chuckling, Igor wiped the tears away from Pavel’s face. “You have small hands that create magic, just like he had. You look frail, but you are tough, just like he was. You love jokes and laughter just like he did, and, just like like him, you treat everyone with kindness.” 

An obviously embarrassed Pavel was trying to hide his face in Igor’s knee, but Igor captured his head between his hands, tilting his eyes up to meet Igor’s, and finished, “That’s what I remember most about Valera: how his laughter could fill a whole rink, how his smile could brighten bleak barracks, and how he just made everybody around him happier by how he acted toward them. He won so many World and Olympic gold medals, but, in the end, what I recall most about him was the joy that he brought others.” 

“You bring me a lot of joy, Igorek.” Pavel grinned up at Igor as he used the diminutive reserved for close friends and family members. “Thank you.” 

“No. Thank you.” Igor ruffled Pavel’s hair. “You bring me more joy than you’ll ever know, Pasha.”


End file.
